Five Times Vir Wanted to Hug Londo  but Didn't
by Amatara
Summary: The title says it all, really.


Hugging with a battered arm would have been a bad idea in any case. Still, he would have risked it, even with Dr. Franklin scowling at him like he expected Vir to do something foolish beyond measure. As if it was _his_ fault that G'Kar had decided to use him for throwing practice, he thought, not sure if it was relief or the medication that was making him so giddy.

He wasn't quite sure what stopped him, in the end. Maybe the look on Londo's face, hinting that several hours with an angry, Dust-crazed Narn was enough physical contact for now, thank you very much. Londo held his dignity, especially his _public_ dignity, very dear, and there was just enough of a sag in his cheeks that Vir knew he wasn't quite up to having it challenged yet. Not even by something as innocent as an overeager aide.

Whatever the reason, Vir stifled his impulse. Instead he settled for sitting by Londo's bed, fussing over him in what little ways he managed with one good arm, until he became a little dizzy himself and Londo demanded, in a voice as loud as ever, that Franklin get Vir to bed and out of his hair.

Strangely, that was the most comforting thing he'd heard all day.

*

He didn't think he'd ever felt so helpless as when they wheeled out Adira's body.

Not that helplessness was something new, per se; ever since Morden inserted himself into their existence, it had practically become a way of _life_. But even in the darkest days of the war, most of Vir's frustration had been directed at Londo the politician, rather than Londo the man. It wasn't right to distinguish between the two, he knew that, but it was the only thing that kept him sane through it all. In a way, the Londo who had given the order against Narn wasn't quite the same as the one who'd been molested by G'Kar, or who'd tried to arrange him an – admittedly disastrous – wedding... Or who was, this very moment, weeping convulsively in a corner of the cargo bay.

"Londo?" He took a step closer, feeling his own breath stick in his chest. His foot impacted with something – the bouquet, he saw, now a messy pile of useless leaves. He started to reach out a hand, let it drop again. Part of him was aching to do something, anything, to break the moment. But as the other man straightened his shoulders and turned, his face was white as a ghost's and about as expressionless.

All he could think of as he walked Londo to his quarters was how happy he'd looked, beaming over the starlaces.

And the garters he'd bought. Great Maker, the garters.

*

He couldn't stop. Both the tears and the heaves just kept on coming, even though there couldn't have been a drop of alcohol left inside him. He tried to tell himself it wasn't worth it. Had positions been reversed and it was Cartagia who'd disposed of _him_ – say, after finding out their intentions – the man wouldn't have batted an eyelash in doing so, except to blink away tears of glee. But that was academic, wasn't it? Cartagia was gone, which made it a hell of a lot harder, suddenly, to continue to hate him. Or at least, hate him as much as he loathed himself right now.

"There. That is better, hmm?" Londo's eyes flitted from him to the stars that streamed by through the viewport. "Really, Vir, you should drink more often. It makes the hangovers much less unpleasant." Said lightly, but his grip, holding Vir up on the edge of the couch, was steel.

Attempting a nod, Vir ended up halfway between a sob and a whimper, was met with a shushing noise of the type usually reserved for small infants. Londo's hand was on the back of his neck – like he was a child that needed soothing, he thought, and felt sick again. He was young, yes, and still more naïve than most, but hardly, as Londo had called it, 'untouched by power'. He'd lost that innocence the day he went to retrieve the poison – no, _before_, when he'd told Londo to kill Cartagia, disgust making the words taste _so_ earned. But in the end, it didn't matter who had struck the blow, did it? The truth was, _he hadn't even been feeling guilty_ until he'd stuck in the needle. Nervous, yes, scared, uncertain... but not guilty. The guilt had only come later – and that, maybe, was the worst of it.

"I'm sorry, I'm s –" He coughed, pushed himself up and swiped at his eyes. "I'm making a big, p-pathetic fool of mys –"

"Vir." Londo's face was still turned towards the window, a muscle tugging near the corner of his eye. "It is… not weakness to _care_, you know. Or to be a good man. The right choices are harder on good men – or so they tell me." Long pause, and Vir blinked up at the harsh sarcasm in the tone, reached instinctively for Londo's shoulder. He was halfway into the embrace when his stomach told him otherwise.

*

He had wanted to do it so badly. Just once, that was all, once in those final carefree months, if only to see the look on Londo's face. He'd do it in the morning, as they met for breakfast, Londo emerging from the bathroom stiff and rumpled, hair barely in place – and radiating with contentment. It had taken Vir a while to spot the source of that radiance, but once he knew, he didn't see how he could have missed it before. How anyone _else_ on the station could have missed it, really. There was only one thing that made Londo grin like that so early in the day – and only one person on the station who qualified.

(He'd thought about Timov, briefly. He wasn't sure, but from what he'd seen over the comm lines, he thought _she_ qualified these days, as well.)

Just once: to walk up to Londo, trap him in a bear hug, and tell him "I'm happy for you." Nothing else. Because he meant it. Because after Adira, after all they'd been through, he hadn't expected him to get this lucky again.

There was only one problem with his plan. In all fairness, and given the usual company at breakfast – he would have to hug G'Kar as well.

*

Such pretty words: a _peaceful_ death. He'd never really believed it existed. Death – the times he'd seen it, at least – was always ugly, no matter how or when it came. And yet, looking at them now, it was hard to believe they'd died struggling. If he hadn't known – if Londo hadn't told him, _years_ ago, what his death would look like – Vir wouldn't have believed it himself. Squint, and he could almost pretend they were sleeping.

Londo was flat on his stomach, cheek pressed against the floor. Sitting cross-legged on the tiles, Vir reached to turn him over, instinct telling him to touch, hold, find that last bit of warmth before it was gone... but something stopped him. Like the spell of a house full of sleepers, trusting him not to wake them.

"It's all right," he whispered, to both of them, and pulled back his hand. If it shook a little, he didn't see it. "Just rest now – I'll take it from here."


End file.
